


Amped

by ekbe_vile



Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: Fuck Or Die, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 21:27:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3825673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekbe_vile/pseuds/ekbe_vile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Constantine.  Chas Chandler.  Fuck Or Die.  That's it, that's the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amped

**Author's Note:**

> BIG WARNING: This story references characters killing animals in the context of spell-working and black magic.

Chas understands sex magic, at least on a basic level – knows at its core, real magic is about energy, and energy doesn’t come from nowhere (though It may appear that way to the untrained eye). If he wants to get into the physics of it, energy has to be created from something else. Like burning coal for heat, or grinding organic matter over eons into coal. And when it comes to human energy, primal and pure, sex is right up there with murder. Something must be given if something is to be received. There are blood sacrifices, usually enough to turn away the amateur – and then there’s sex.

And only an amateur would consider ritual sex a safer, saner alternative to bloodletting. 

Chas has known John long enough to learn the basics. He understands that for all the lamb’s blood, for every red-winged blackbird and crested rooster, John is sparing himself – and Chas – something worse.

And now that something worse is burning John alive – his skin is flushed and glowing with sweat and he’s delirious with fever as Chas half-drags, half-carries him into the millhouse.

“Zed!” Chas is yelling as he lays John out on the couch in the library, hoping that the cavernous chill of the place will help slow the fire consuming John from the inside out, hoping that Zed is somewhere she can hear and not meditating in an interdimensional temple behind one of the mill’s uncounted doors.

But Zed doesn’t answer and Chas is running out of time – John told him as much scarcely an hour ago, when everything went so spectacularly wrong. John described it as a feedback loop, like holding an electric guitar up to an amplifier until it _screams_. 

Except John’s body is the amplifier and the magic’s the guitar and it’s his nerves that are screaming as his nose starts to bleed because even the most powerful amp will blow a tube or rupture a membrane under that kind of pressure.

“Getting soft in me old age,” John had muttered as Chas helped him into the back of the cab. “Could’ve just used a cat, but no, had to get that Sarah McLachlan song stuck in me head. I hate that bloody ad.”

“John?” Chas says now – slaps his cheek, trying to get his eyes to focus. “Constantine! C’mon, stay with me you selfish prick.”

John manages a sideways grin, but his gums are bloody and the expression comes off as more of a grimace. “Therein lies the irony,” he says, but his voice is a parched rasp. “It’s all well and good using your own blood for a spell, but try to show a little self-love and the magic throws a bloody fit.”

“Guess it really does take two to tango,” Chas offers, and it’s not funny, not when John’s laugh chokes off in a dry, desperate moan. Chas shakes his shoulder. “How do I stop it?”

The moan turns into a cry and John arches under Chas’s hand like the touch is both an agony and a relief. “Need a psychic to break the loop, redirect the flow of energy,” he manages to get out. “Zed…?”

“I’ll go find her.” But when Chas starts to pull away John makes this desperate noise like a wounded animal.

“No, no stay,” he whines. “Don’t stop touching me.” He drags the hand on his shoulder down under his shirt, pressing it flat against the soft plane of his belly - grabs at Chas’s other hand and rubs his face into the palm. 

And Chas can’t help the way his fingers curl into John’s sweat-soaked hair, nor how they move to cradle the back of his head. And he may not know much about sex magic, but he knows enough to realize Zed isn’t the only one with the power to break this spell.

He takes John’s face in both hands and leans down to kiss him. And Constantine’s breath feels like fire as he surges up into Chas’s mouth and Chas is the one left gasping when John finally pushes away.

“No, no – can’t let you do that,” John shakes his head. He goes limp, like giving up, like he’s just going to let the heat eat him alive.

But Chas keeps a hold on his head, strokes his thumbs through the sweat and tears slippery on John’s cheeks. “Will it help?” he asks. “Will it break the loop?”

John swallows, unable to tear his eyes from Chas’s lips. “Can’t ask you to do that,” he breathes.

Which is answer enough for Chas. “You’re not asking,” he says and bends to kiss John again.

And to Constantine’s credit, he does try to pull away, but his strength has been sapped and really, he wouldn’t have been able to push Chas off anyway, not it Chas didn’t want to be pushed. And while Chas would like to think himself a good kisser, he also understands that the way John finally surrenders has more to do with the pain than Chas’s own prowess. He tries not to feel the sting of self-deprecation, tries to focus on the heat pouring off his friend’s body, on saving John’s fucking life – and it’s a surprisingly easy thing to do when John opens his legs and grinds his hard cock into Chas’s hip.

“Might as well do it right,” John pants, hitches one leg up the back of Chas’s thigh. He mouths inelegantly at Chas’s beard. “Gonna have to fuck me proper, mate.”

John’s voice touches Chas somewhere dirty and primal and _hungry_ and suddenly he wants more than just to help a friend, he _wants,_ and it would frighten him if his cock weren’t already so hard and aching in his pants he can barely form a coherent thought.

And that must be the magic working on him, pulling Chas into its loop, making him burn with John but he can’t bring himself to worry or care. And that must be why it’s so dangerous.

He’ll later wonder how it’s John who has the presence of mind to wriggle out of his coat and retrieve the not-so-secret stash of condoms and lube from the inner pocket. Chas almost swats them away, is more interested in burying his face in John’s neck and licking and sucking and _marking_. And he’s always been a gentle, considerate lover – knows all too well that he’s big enough to genuinely break most of his partners, but here with John in the magic’s thrall he doesn’t care, he feels feral and he doesn’t even try to hold himself back as he rips John’s shirt open and drags his teeth over the lean meat of Constantine’s chest.

And John gives as good as he gets, bucking and writhing under Chas’s weight, pushing up his sweater and t-shirt to claw at the broad expanse of his back. “Fuck,” he’s gasping, kicking off his shoes and digging his heels onto Chas’s ass. “Please, please, hurry –“

Somewhere in the back of his mind Chas knows it must be bad if Constantine’s begging. That same detached part of his consciousness steps back and watches in a kind of mute horror at the way he jerks John’s pants down off his hips, at the way he grabs John’s red, uncut cock and swallows it down without hesitation, without even a thought.

John makes that noise again, a keening agony that catches in the back of his throat. He closes his eyes and tosses his head from side to side, fingers scrabbling at Chas’s shoulders, knotting in his hair. His voice, desert dry before, has gone liquid and urgent as he chants, “Chas, Chas, please for fuck’s sake, take me, fuck me –“

It should sound like something out of a cheap porno, especially coming from John, but the sound of Constantine’s desperation, the way he begs _Chas_ of all people to penetrate him, to _possess_ him – fuck, there’ no sigil in the occult world that could keep Chas out now, no ward that could stop him from staking his animal claim to John Constantine’s body.

Somehow they’re both naked, John’s neck and chest flushed red, his heart beating double time to pump blood to his extremities. “Now,” he growls, all but throws the condom in Chas’s face.

Chas gives him two fingers, hard and fast with spit for lube.

“Bastard Christ!” John swears.

Chas grunts, “Sorry,” but he doesn’t mean it, not when he twists and curls his fingers into John’s heat.

John almost screams, throws his arms around Chas’s neck and fucks down onto his fingers. Electricity sparks between them, wild and unpredictable as a firestorm whipping across the plains of their flesh. 

And there’s hellfire burning behind John’s eyes, and his stare scorches Chas’s words in his mouth. If the eyes are windows to the soul, then there’s nothing left to save in John Constantine. Chas looks into the Pit, and the Pit looks back into him.

He tears open the foil on the condom with his teeth – isn’t thinking about safety or responsibility as he rolls the rubber onto his cock, just knows he needs some kind of barrier between his too human flesh and the inferno inside John Constantine. His own private Hell, and Chas bites John’s shoulder to muffle his groan as he sinks in.

John howls, bucks up like he’s trying to throw Chas off, but only impales himself deeper. 

A bolt of white hot bliss shoots up Chas’s spine and explodes at the base of his skull when John squirms on his cock.

He’ll remember this later – the rush of power as he pulls out and slams back in, as he makes John Constantine’s eyes roll back, makes him scream and gasp, makes him come like a seizure. Because John is always in control, even when he’s not – that’s his special trick, _his_ power, and fucking him feels like ritual cannibalism, like Chas is eating John’s magic, his power, eating him alive.

He can almost see the magic when he comes, like a flash of lightning and the clap of thunder. Fuses short in his head, in the library – lights a flickering crescendo, gathering strength and then crashing like a wave, like Chas’s orgasm. He’s never come like this before, never this hard, not this long.

The magic peaks, light bulbs burst, and Chas falls – falls into John, lying spread and open beneath him, eyes glowing with power and secret symbols burning under his skin, like now it’s his turn to devour the sun.

Then the magic recedes, drawn away like a blanket, and Chas is exhausted and sore and going soft in John’s ass.

“Oi.” John gives him a shove. “You’re crushing me, mate.”

***

Chas wakes up in his own bed, the blankets rumpled and the empty John-shaped space still warm beside him. He doesn’t remember how he got here – for a moment he doesn’t remember anything, but it comes back to him with the ache in his muscles and the buzz of a magical hangover. 

He doesn’t move right away, has the sick feeling that anything he touches is going to give him a hell of a static shock. But he can smell something burning, and he’s more worried about the source than any residual discomfort.

In the kitchen eggs and sausage are smoking on the griddle and a black, syrupy liquid is filling the coffee pot. Chas ignores the latter and goes for the stove – takes the eggs off the heat and scrapes the salvageable portions onto the plates laid out on the countertop. 

It’s only then that he smells the sage.

Chas doesn’t know what to expect, but over the years he’s known John he’s come to associate sage with magic. The spiral stairs rattle as he takes them two steps at a time, and his head is spinning with panic because what if it didn’t work, what if something went wrong –

He finds John circling the couch, waving around a smoldering bumble of sage and chanting in low overtones. “Do us a favor and check the breakfast?” he asks. “Eggs should just about be ready.”

“I already got the eggs,” Chas says.

John shoots him a grin. “Of course you did. That’s our Chas, save the food first.”

It should be an insult, but John says it with such affection Chas barely registers the gentle ribbing. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks instead. “Exorcising the couch?”

John frowns down at the furniture in question, and Chas’s neck heats at the memory of his friend naked and begging on his cock. 

John huffs. “In a manner of speaking, yes,” he says. “You and me made real _magic_ last night, mate. It had to go somewhere.”

Chas takes a moment to process this information. “Our couch is possessed by sex magic?”

John’s frown deepens. “You’re going to have to warn Zed.”


End file.
